36. Jeremiah
JEREMIAH
Iwake to a cupboard closing and Zelda muttering at something in the kitchen. The pillow beside me is still warm. For a few seconds I lie with my hand on it, enjoying the ridiculous fact that she is only in the next room.
I find her holding a jar of honey. She is reading the date on the jar as though the answer may affect breakfast.
“I was going to bring you tea,” I say.
“I was going to make you breakfast.”
“We can compete.”
“I’ve already found the honey. You’re behind.”
I kiss her while the kettle heats. She tastes of sleep and honey stolen from the tip of her finger. Her free hand goes under my open shirt and rests against my back. I forget the tea until the kettle clicks off.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“Very well, considering the argument.”
My hand stills.
“With the chair,” she says. “You were quite firm with it.”
“Was it leaning?”
“You told it to stop managing you.”
I laugh with her tucked against me. She laughs too, then tips her face up for another kiss.
We eat at the little table facing the laundromat. The pink paper in its window has torn along one corner. Every time someone opens the door, the loose piece flutters.
“I could fix that,” I say.
“You don’t own the laundromat.”
“It would take one piece of tape.”
“Finish your toast. Leave those people and their decorations alone.”
I turn my chair toward her so I cannot see the window. She puts the honey between us with an expression of deep satisfaction.
There is a mark from the sheet on her cheek. I want to kiss it. I want to sit here until it fades. Last night she asked me to stay, and this morning she is stealing the crispest corner of my toast without asking at all.
Hedy sends a photograph of Otto propped against her knees, looking appalled by the soft block she is offering him. Zelda turns the screen toward me.
“She’ll bring him at eleven.”
“He appears to be preparing a complaint.”
“He can’t have the red one. He’s sitting on it.”
We study our son’s grievance together. Then Zelda gets up to collect the breakfast plates, and I take them from her before the honey jar can roll off the stack.
“We could do the laundry,” she says. “If you’re offering to be useful.”
The bag by the door is heavier than it looks. Across the street, she feeds the machine while I stuff the towels inside. One of Otto’s little shirts falls out and lands on my shoe. I pick it up and put my thumb into the sleeve.
“He fitted this a fortnight ago.”
“He still fits it. His arms aren’t the size of your thumb.”
She folds it over my hand to show me, and I catch her fingers. We stand there until someone behind us says, “Excuse me,” and we discover we are blocking both machines.
While the towels turn, we go upstairs again. She has a longer library shift next week and asks whether I can have Otto on Thursday afternoon.
I check the time against my calendar, move a call, and tell her yes. She puts it in hers. Then she leans across the table to show me the photograph of the display she is building, and the morning starts disappearing too quickly.
When the towels are dry, we carry them back together. She tips them onto the bed. A warm white corner lands against my wrist, and I can see a whole string of mornings: laundry, breakfast, Otto growing out of his shirts, her hand reaching past mine for the honey.
I fold a towel badly. Zelda refolds it without comment.
“I saw that,” I say.
“Then learn.”
I am still smiling when she sets down the next one.
“Last night was good.”
“It was.”
“I still need this place,” she says without looking at me again. “I don’t know when that will change.”
The towel in my hands has gone crooked again. I straighten the edges. I had not meant to ask her to come home this morning, but some part of me has already furnished the next ten years out of a jar of honey.
“I know,” I whisper.
She watches me. I try to make my face easier for her to look at and cannot quite manage it.
“I wanted you here,” she says.
“I wanted to be here.” I put down the towel. “I’m glad you asked.”
She steps close enough to touch my shirt. “Good. Because I’d like to ask again.”
I kiss her. Her hand catches the back of my shirt, and I stop thinking about what I will be missing when I leave.
Hedy arrives at eleven. Otto turns toward Zelda’s voice, then away from both of us to inspect the door hinge. I get him out of his carrier and hold him while Hedy describes his morning. There is milk to put away, a sock to find, and a very serious accusation about somebody eating the last biscuit.
I leave in time for my meeting at one. Zelda walks me to the door with Otto against her shoulder. He has caught a strand of her hair, and she guides his fist open while I kiss the patch he has dampened.
“Thursday,” she says.
“Thursday.”
Outside, I look up at her window. She lifts Otto’s hand in a small wave. I wave back, and she makes him do it again until we are both laughing.